(Note-Today we conclude a three day run of Eric Huff’s poetry–technically, a three days in four run. Regardless of the schedule, we look forward to seeing his return soon–LA)

what struck me most was not how the pothos was planted in a sort of geometric pot affixed to the cerise wall on the side of the bathroom nearest the door but rather how its one long tendril worked its way back and over a tarnished, white-framed mirror and a small, caged light with the softest golden glow – warm and unexpected – to turn the corner again along exposed brick and finally rest in the white light of day filtered through a frosted courtyard facing window. seven or eight viridescent leaves just reaching out as if in holy worship crying praise be to a merciful god we will never really know or understand. I remember washing my hands and thinking in what ways am I this pothos plant, strung out in this coffee shop bathroom in the RiNo neighborhood of Denver, Colorado?

Eric Huff

(Image is of the poet)